


Coffee?

by eyemoji



Series: the ground is not so stable here [3]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: M/M, coming out fic, for the uninitiated unstable ground is a tma stellar firma au, no internalized acephobia jon just doesn't like conversing about it, unstable ground anniversary fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:21:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23056894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyemoji/pseuds/eyemoji
Summary: "The coffee is also sex." - Trexel Geistman 3k19Jon and Martin Blackwood have a conversation. There are no mysteries. The coffee is not sex.(A one-year anniversary self-celebration forthe ground is not so stable here! Takes place pre-UG canon. You do not need to have read it to understand this fic.)
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Series: the ground is not so stable here [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1380889
Comments: 19
Kudos: 139





	Coffee?

**Author's Note:**

> It was the one year anniversary of [_the ground is not so stable here_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17853779/chapters/42131090) about a month ago (February 19th, if anyone’s curious--) I promise I didn’t forget! I was so swamped with work that I didn’t manage to get this out on time as planned, but I hope you’ll forgive me and enjoy this about a month late :)

It starts as a shock: Martin is kissing him. 

Martin Blackwood has his arms firmly looped around one Jonathan Sims, Upper Level Planetary Designer, and his lips are just as enthusiastically doing their absolute best to fluster the same. Somewhere, below the giddy rush of disbelief and a series of wildly rampant, severely-workplace-inappropriate thoughts, Jon feels the first of a series of dull alarms pulse on into a sickly, glowing orange.

He ignores it. In this moment, when he’s got _Martin Blackwood--_ Martin, who he trusts, now, more than anybody-- pressed up against his chest, he’s _not_ going to go and ruin it by letting his mind drift down _that_ path. It’s fine. It is. It’s fine.

Martin slides one of his hands up into his hair, fingers tugging lightly at his curls, and Jon lets his head fall backwards with the motion. From this angle, he can see the gentle curve of Martin’s smile, the splotchy patches of blush scattered across his cheeks; together they make quite the pleasing effect, he thinks. He wants to lean up and kiss each one. He wants to run his thumbs across the color, see it redden further under his touch. He wants to--

Martin’s hand sweeps down his back and rests at the junction of belt and button-down, and Jon stiffens.

Immediately, Martin stills. 

They stand like that for a moment, frozen but for the gentle rise and fall of breathing. Jon’s eyes dart to the side, unable to deal with Martin’s staring, the inquiry there. 

“Are you alright?” he eventually asks softly, and Jon’s heart clenches in his chest. Martin takes a step back, loosens his hand, but doesn’t entirely release his grip on Jon’s waist. “Your heart’s going a lightyear a second. I’d be flattered, but… somehow I don’t think this is a _good_ reaction, exactly?”

Jon’s mouth feels dry. He brings his hand up to cover Martin’s, pressing it further against his shirt.

“I’m fine,” he tries.

Martin purses his lips.

“Okay, now I _know_ something’s up.” His hand twitches as he tries to remove it, forgetting for a second that Jon’s just trapped it there. His face does something strange, and Jon watches as he slowly puts together his next words. “Was-- Were you--” He breaks off, sighs, slumps his shoulders ever-so-slightly and tries again:

“Did you not want me to-- kiss you? Because I really am sorry if you didn’t; I guess I just thought--”

“No!” Jon says, much too fast, and, wincing, overcompensates with, “That is, I mean-- Yes? I, I mean-- Dear Board-- _Yes_ , I very much appreciated it. The kiss.”

Martin scans his face nervously, clearly looking for signs that he’s faking it, and Jon’s offended probably a bit more than he ought to.

“I wouldn’t lie to you about that, Martin.”

“So you _are_ lying about something, then?”

Jon shakes his head.

“Board, you’ve hardly asked me anything else.”

“I should’ve asked you before I did it, though,” Martin points out.

Jon shuffles his feet, holds back on rolling his eyes, because, technically, Martin has a point, and if it had been anything else, he definitely would have wanted a question aimed his way, but as it is, it had been rather delightfully spontaneous, the way Martin had looked at him and cocked his head, something not quite new but _bolder_ in his eyes-- and then, all at once-- the kiss-- and Jon would be lying if he said he hadn’t found it attractive, hadn’t, in fact, gone so far as to find it, though he generally loathes the word, _hot_ \--

Martin interprets his silence as a sign that he’s hit the nail on the head, takes that as his cue to begin apologizing again. This time, it’s harder for Jon to keep his eyes from rolling, his internal alarms having long begun to fade. His hand loosens the pressure against Martin’s, becomes more a gentle permission than a vise against his own waist.

“So,” Martin is saying, “Um, I’ll, I’ll definitely make sure to ask before, ah, the, uh, next… time?” 

His voice has just the right mix of nerves and hope. Jon can’t _not_ kiss him again.

Martin lets out a very satisfying squeak at the contact, and Jon allows himself a self-assured smile against his lips.

“Right,” Martin says once he’s pulled back, more than a little wobbly. “Right, then.”

“For the record,” Jon can’t help but say, buzzing once again, “That really wasn’t the issue.”

He watches Martin’s face scrunch in confusion, then, before he can get his mouth all the way open to speak, leans up and kisses him again. Whatever Martin had been about to say dissolves into a sigh, and his hanging hand drifts back up to seat against where his neck meets his back. Boldened, Jon presses forward, and Martin meets him halfway, and soon their conversation is lost to the throes of distant memory.

* * *

Except, as it turns out, it isn’t. Wasn’t. Jon finds this out one day in the cafetorium, where he’s doing his best to reach out for Martin’s hand as discreetly as he can manage, though the smile bubbling upon his lips is threatening to expose him too soon. It’s not that they’re keeping it a secret, so it’s not like it matters-- but still, there’s something giddying about circumventing professionalism during the workday.

Martin’s saying something about the terrible quality of the drinks available to lower-level employees, is complaining about how he just _knows_ there’s better stuff put out for the higher-ups, and Jon isn’t really thinking about the implications when he invites Martin back to his.

“You know,” he says, and he’s just trying to be a good-- _whatever-this-is_ \-- really; just looking out for someone he cares about, “You could always come back to mine for coffee. Or tea. If you prefer.”

Martin gives him a strange look, then, one that’s not exactly _bad_ , but is definitely _different_ \-- and honestly that should have tipped him off right then and there-- but he nods, slowly, and Jon reaches out and grabs his hand, finally, and Martin’s eyebrows nearly hit the roof-- sign number two. He says, “What, you mean-- now?” and Jon shrugs and says “Why not? No time like the present,” and really, he should have been thinking harder about Martin’s dizzied expression as he leads him away and down Stellar Firma’s winding corridors to somewhere in the East Bay. Instead, he’s too busy worrying about the sparseness, the starkness of his quarters, all of it too blanched for the amount of color Martin’s brought him.

They enter, and Jon offers him a spot on the bed, and Martin nods, eyes wide, as he toes off his shoes; and Jon offers him a mug of whatever he likes, and Martin accepts the steaming Earl Grey with a strangely bashful glance; and then Jon offers him a kiss because he’s been meaning to do so all morning, and Martin startles and sets his tea aside and pulls him into his lap.

And then it’s nice, for a bit. Martin is soft, and warm, and kisses with just the right amount of force. He’s more hands and teeth than tongue, and Jon lets a small sound escape him as Martin bends his head and gets just the right angle to his jaw. And then, spurred by Jon’s responsivity, Martin leans in a little further, lets his lips play against Jon’s neck as his hands slide a little lower, and all at once the alarms are back in full force.

This time, when Jon freezes, Martin lets go entirely.

Again, there’s a terrible, terrible silence.

Again, Martin is the first one to break it.

“Jon,” he says, and his voice is no less soft than the first time, “Everything okay?”

Jon turns his head to the side. He doesn’t want to answer, doesn’t want to have to meet Martin’s eyes, which is ridiculous considering he’s still sitting on top of him _in his bed, dear Board, Jonathan._ He parses through his thoughts as quickly as he can, trying to find an explanation that isn’t the real one but that will also make sense. He opens his mouth to try. Closes it, because he doesn’t want to lie to Martin, not really. Opens it again, this time with the intention of the truth. Closes it again, because _can’t he just have this one moment?_

“Um, Jon?” Martin says, voice pitched slightly higher. He’s sitting up; Jon can see him shift out of the corner of his eye; he grabs onto Jon to keep him from falling off the mattress but releases him like he’s been burned the moment they’re both situated. Jon watches him do it and doesn’t move off of his lap. He can feel Martin’s muscles tensing, ever-so-slightly, like he wants to get up and leave, but still, he doesn’t move off of his lap. He has to keep him here. He has to _explain_. He opens his mouth, about to say what he doesn’t know--

“Coffee,” is what ends up coming out.

“What?”

“Coffee,” he says again, helplessly. _Board,_ he doesn’t want to have this talk. He wants Martin to shut up and kiss him again. He wants Martin to leave. “I meant coffee.”

Martin stares at him for another moment.

“Jon,” he says, eventually, and there’s a note of alarm in his voice, “What on _Stellar Firma_ are you talking about?”

Jon takes a deep breath, wets his lips.

“When I invited you here. I really did mean for you to, ah, have some good coffee.”

Martin’s gaze flickers to the nightstand, where his mug of tea has since ceased to steam. 

“I didn’t know? I would’ve drank it if you asked; I was just-- in a tea mood?” He looks back at Jon, offers a somewhat forced smile. “I usually am?”

Jon laughs, and it is hollow.

“It’s not about-- _drinking_ it. Tea is fine.”

He shifts, restless, and then thinks better of it at the look on Martin’s face. 

“Sorry,” he mutters, and makes the executive decision to hoist himself from his lap. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he lets himself drop the foot or so to the ground, takes a couple of steps until he’s firmly, but awkwardly, braced against his dresser. Martin watches him do all of it without making a sound, lips pursed into an expression that reads more confused than anything.

“Ah,” he says, refusing to look over at the bed, “So I realize, now, in retrospect, that I-- may have accidentally-- _implied things_ \-- with my offer.”

Martin blinks. Stays silent, waiting for him to finish. Jon takes a deep breath.

“I didn’t mean to,” he says, all in a rush. “And I’m sorry if there was any confusion. And to be honest; I, I know I ought to have said this earlier, but I probably will never want to. Imply things, that is.”

He chances another glance at Martin, whose brow is now furrowed, eyes darting from side to side like he’s furiously working something out in his head. When he finally speaks, it’s with the air of someone who thinks he’s puzzled something out, but is only on the barest edge of surety. Jon watches his throat work as he struggles to put together the words; it’s a bit entrancing to watch him swallow. _Which is not the point at the moment, idiot._

“So, just to be clear,” Martin says. “Um, just to make sure I’ve got this right: You don’t.. want... to, what, have sex with me?”

“With anyone,” Jon corrects, automatically. “I- It’s not a you thing. It’s, ah, me.”

“Okay,” Martin says, slowly. “Thank you for telling me. And, uh, trusting me. With that.” 

He shifts forward, and for one horrible moment Jon thinks he’s going to slide off of the bed and walk out of his quarters, but he just reaches down and pulls his other leg up so he’s seated criss-cross on the mattress. A good sign, Jon thinks. Surely he wouldn’t move to a more permanent position if he was planning to leave. Unless he’s preparing himself to deliver the inevitable breakup monologue-- _not inevitable; never inevitable, not for this, Jonathan; have some self-respect; have some respect for_ him--

“Anything else?”

“What?”

“Any other concerns you want to bring up to me now? Feels like we might as well get them over with.”

Jon blinks.

“Wh-- So--?”

“I just,” Martin says, and he’s picking his words carefully again, _oh no_ , “want to know if there’s anything else making you uncomfortable or that you’d want to bring up about-- us? ‘Cause I’d like to address it all at once.”

“N-No,” Jon says, and then lapses into a semi-stunned silence. Martin nods, as if he’s actually taking this seriously, and a strange warmth blooms deep in his chest.

“Okay. Then can I ask you a couple of questions? Mostly about boundaries and stuff?”

Jon blinks again. 

“Uh,” he says, and he’s painfully aware of how creaky his voice sounds. “Alright.”

Martin shifts on the bed. All of a sudden, he seems more out of his element, _nervous_ , almost, in a way the confusion must have masked earlier.

“Um, just to start, just to-- just to be sure-- uh, you _do_ still--” he breaks off, winces, “Board, this is going to sound pitiful-- you _are_ interested in me, right? Like, romantically?”

Jon must hesitate a bit too long in processing-- _he’s still worried whether_ I _like_ him _?--_ because something in Martin’s face falls, and his shoulders tense as he hurries to add:

“I mean, if, if you don’t, that’s totally fine! I just-- I mean, you know I thought-- Um, well--”

Jon decides it’s time to put him out of his misery.

“No, no,” he assures. “I’m definitely, ah, as you put it, _romantically interested_. In you, Board help me.”

Martin squints at him.

“Sorry, not the time,” Jon mutters, but Martin’s already relaxed a bit, so he supposes it’s fine. His voice is certainly relieved when he moves to ask his next question.

“So, I guess my next question is: where’s the line, for you? Like, you seem to be okay with kissing, right; I’m assuming ‘cause you only ever really freeze up when things get heated, but I’m thinking back, and I can’t really tell what exactly it is that.. sets you off, I guess?” He licks his lips. “Sorry, bad wording. But you know what I mean?”

“Yes, I do.” 

As he says the words, he begins thinking about an answer. It’s not that he doesn’t have enough experience with the situation Martin’s describing to have one at the ready; it’s more that he himself can’t really pin any specific moment or action that, as Martin had so crudely phrased it, _sets him off_. He’s had relationships-- Georgie comes to mind-- where the alarms rarely flipped; he’s also had his share that kept them ringing near constantly.

“I don’t think it’s any one thing,” Jon confesses, eventually. “It’s mostly just-- the expectation, that throws me off?

“Of having sex?”

“ _Yes,_ Martin.”

“Okay. So is it, like, the _way_ I kiss? How can you tell the difference between making out with expectations and… making out with.. no expectations?”

Jon shifts against the dresser, presses his palms against the cool synthesized wood. His fingers reach for the metal knobs, rub circles against them, the motion keeping him grounded.

“I don’t know,” he snaps, and then immediately regrets it at the way Martin flinches back. Damn conscience. “Sorry. I just-- It’s not something I’m actively looking for. Though I find myself thinking a lot.. about it? During the act.”

“Would it help if I was more gentle?”

Jon thinks about this for a second, considers the way Martin’s voice, too, has gone softer. He thinks about Martin pressing him up against a wall, arms half lifting him along it, one hand tangled in his hair, the other around his waist. He thinks about Martin’s mouth, firm and just the slightest bit demanding, his hot breath against his skin, teeth against lips-- he’s flushing, he thinks, just at the thought of it.

“Not necessarily,” is what he tells Martin. And then, because he can sense Martin opening his mouth again to take another angle on it: “Martin, really; we’re both adults; I’ll _tell_ you if I’m uncomfortable.”

“Will you?” and, okay, he hates that the dubiousness in his voice is justified; it makes him heat in a much less enjoyable way.

“I will,” he affirms. “And I’m glad you made me talk about it.”

“I didn’t make you do anything,” Martin says, but he’s leaning back against the pillows, now, apparently satisfied. Jon takes this as his cue to finally roll his eyes. Stepping towards the bed seems a logical next step, and he releases the dresser knobs before he takes Martin’s hand and brings it to his lips.

“Oh,” Martin says. All of a sudden, he’s resembling that vintage shade, “Millennial Pink,” which Jon happens to know he favors, and it’s all he can do to keep from rolling his eyes again, directing the energy instead to kissing him properly. Martin’s hand automatically reaches up to cup the back of his head, and it’s only after they’ve pulled back, foreheads resting against each other, that he asks,

“Was that okay?”

In answer, Jon kisses him again, and this time when they break apart, the color of Martin’s face resembles Build-team Vermilion.

“It suits you,” Jon teases, once he’s firmly planted on top of Martin again, head on his chest.

“Yeah? Maybe I should steal a clone uniform or two, wear them around.”

“Resorting to a life of crime after all?”

“Anything for you,” Martin says, and it’s cheesy, but Jon still can’t resist kissing him again at _that_.

And then he pulls back, suddenly.

Martin frowns.

“What is it?”

“You _do_ like this, right?” _Like me,_ he doesn’t say.

Martin blinks.

“Er, Jon?” he asks.

“Yes?”

“What part of the last two hours-- the last two _months--_ could have possibly implied anything other than _I like you_?”

“Well,” says Jon, feeling incredibly foolish already but steadfast in his refusal to back down. “I’ve been told I can be rather annoying.”

Martin sits up, jostling him as he does, arms flying up to wind tightly behind his back so as to keep him from falling.

“Is this-- You’re just fishing for compliments now, right?”

“I am not,” Jon says primly, and then follows it up with a sheepish, “I just-- wanted to make sure? Because it’s been said--”

“Okay,” Martin says again, cutting him off. “I admit it, you can be _very_ annoying when you want to be. There. Satisfied?”

Jon opens his mouth to speak, but Martin holds up a finger. “I’m not done yet, please.”

Jon closes his mouth. Martin raises an eyebrow.

“So. Keeping that in mind, I promise you I’m fully aware of what I mean when I say: I _do_ like you. I like.. this. Spending time with you is actually a quite enjoyable part of my week that I actively look forward to, in fact. There’s quite literally nothing you could say that would get me to leave you, so for Board’s sake stop trying, Jonathan Sims.”

A hovering silence fills the air once he’s done speaking. Jon blinks, once, twice. Somehow it seems so much harder to swallow, to meet Martin’s eyes. His skin’s thankfully never been one for exposing his embarrassment via blush, but just now he’s sure that Martin can see every inch of the fire burning through him.

Before he can think up a way to respond over the sudden lump in his throat, Martin makes a small choking sound and promptly returns to a state of bright red.

“That is!” he says, and he’s practically tripping over his words in his haste to get them out, “That is, of course-- unless you wanted me to leave. Obviously I would respect you and what you want; I just meant--”

The lump in Jon’s trachea intensifies. He’s not sure he’d be able to speak if he tried, just now. This whole love thing is dizzying; how _does_ someone respond to a declaration like Martin’s? Somehow a simple ‘thank you’ doesn’t seem enough. _Thank you, Martin. I appreciate you. No, that is-- I mean--_

And in the scene behind Jon’s eyes, that’s about the part where Martin will take pity on him and effectively cut off his stiff attempts at a love confession with a hand running up his arm, or even a kiss. In the here and now, though, he’s sure Martin deserves so much more, deserves to hear it from him. So he takes a deep breath, and delivers what he’s sure is going to set the high point of his career in _smooth-talking_ :

“Now, that's just not fair,” he says, tilting his head up to look Martin directly in the eyes. He’s making sure to peer out at him from under his lashes, the way he knows will keep a light dusting of pink across his cheeks. “You warned me Gertrude would annoy me into _liking_ you. You didn’t say anything about being in _love_ with you.”

He doesn't catch Martin's slight gasp as he leans forward to capture him in a kiss, misses the way his eyes widen before he sinks into him, hands curling into the sheets at his sides.

The tea, long-forgotten upon the nightstand, goes cold.


End file.
